“This; if Fantômas has invited us here, it is because he is quite confident we are not likely either to guess or parry the blow he is preparing. Moreover, I’ve been engaged since I got here, in making a cursory investigation, and having learnt nothing ...” But M. Havard, to the last degree perplexed, had become deeply buried in his own thoughts. “For my own part,” he admitted, “do you know what it is worries me?” “No! What does?” “I keep asking myself whether Fantômas has not enticed us here, has not enticed you here in particular, you, Tom Bob, on purpose to have a free hand at some other spot in the city which it was his pleasure perhaps to visit.” Tom Bob too, debated the supposition M. Havard had just formulated. “No, that would not be playing fair,” he said at last; “and Fantômas has never been dishonourable. No, I can’t believe he would do that.” M. Havard shrugged his shoulders by way of answer; he distrusted the American’s psychological acumen. After a short silence, M. Havard resumed: “Well, as you please, Monsieur Bob, but my opinion is that for to-night, either we are the victims of some practical joker, or in any case the affair is off. Fantômas must have seen that my officers were here in force. For my part, I am going to take a turn to look after my men; I know where they are, hidden about the island. Then I shall take the ferry again and so back to the Prefecture. Will you join me?” Tom Bob shook his head. “No,” he declared, “I shall spend the night here. I make it a point to keep my tryst with Fantômas. However, M. Havard, I will go with you in the boat as far as the other bank; that will give me the pleasure of another row on this pretty lake, a perfect jewel at this time of an evening, the finest thing of its kind, surely, in Paris.” Still in a hurry, M. Havard did not stop to listen to the American’s praises of the Bois de Boulogne. He crossed the little wooden bridge joining the two parts of the island, made sure that the officers he had sent there in the afternoon were at their posts, ordered them to keep a most careful watch all night on the lake and its approaches, then made his way back to Tom Bob. “You are coming?” “I am quite ready.” The detective got up, paid the bill for his dinner, and took another cigar, while M. Havard, faithful to his usual habits, refused the Havana Tom Bob offered him and drew a cigarette from his case. The two police-officials left the restaurant and made for the landing, where the ferry-boat was again putting in. “Get in,” M. Havard urged the American. “After you!” protested the Head of the Criminal Bureau. “Halloa, have you a light about you? Will you pass me a match, I haven’t got one.” Tom Bob looked at his cigar. “I’m not well alight myself,” he said, and pulling a box of vestas from his pocket, he lit one, handed it to M. Havard, then took it back and applied it to his own cigar; then, as the match was beginning to burn his fingers, he tossed it into the lake.